


A Callous Disregard for Human Life

by a-cumberbatch-of-cookies (tishy19)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Russian Roulette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tishy19/pseuds/a-cumberbatch-of-cookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim tricks John and Sherlock into playing a very dangerous game of Russian Roulette. Who's going to be the unlucky soul that will find the loaded chamber?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Callous Disregard for Human Life

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. I originally had this broken up into chapters, but chucksauce made an excellent point that it was doing more bad then good for the story.
> 
> So bad news: I deleted the other chapters.  
> Good news: You get the completed story!

Three men sit around a small table.

One leans forward in his chair, elbows firmly resting on the tabletop while his hands press together with the sides of his fingers resting against his lips.

The second man watches the first, who is deep in thought. A manic grin is spread across his face and his eyes are large and dark.

The third man partially slumps in his chair; short legs spread limply and is rubbing his face with one hand, taking deep, steadying breaths.

None of the men stare at the revolver and bullet on the table.

"It's just another game of chance," Sherlock murmurs, still staring directly at Jim.

Jim's grin widens, sharp white teeth gleaming in the harsh light. "What's wrong with a bit of risk?"

"A bit?" John repeats, his voice low.

The other two men ignore him.

"And you're willing to accept the risk?" Sherlock asks, his eyes finally darting down to the gun and back up to Jim.

Jim's shoulders jump with a shrug. "I like games. I like guns. I like seeing terror in your eyes. That first taste at the poolside," Jim practically purrs, "oh, I could never get enough of that."

"Then you don't need John."

At the mention of his name, John's hand finally falls away from his face. His eyes purposefully skip past the items on the table and lock on Sherlock. "I'm not leaving here without you."

"Then it's settled!" Jim shouts, clapping his hands together. The smack cracks throughout the room and John jolts in his chair, hands shooting out to grip the edge of the table. John mutters a soft 'Jesus,' before pulling his arms back to cross over his chest.

John turns back to Sherlock and watches as the detective’s gaze flicks around the room once more. Both men know they are trapped in this room with Jim Moriarty. They had been led to what appeared to be an abandoned shop on a busy street with a series of confusing clues. They were then locked in the basement with a slam of a door and clang of a lock. John and Sherlock had not been all that surprised to find the world’s only consulting criminal seated at a table with two empty chairs.

John had quickly demanded answers, first glaring daggers at Jim, then turning questioning eyes to his partner, only to receive nothing. It was only after John took a few menacing steps towards Jim that the criminal drew out a six-shooter from beneath his jacket, causing John to stop and suck in a deep breath, and placed it on the table. Right afterwards he pulled a single bullet from his breast pocket and placed it innocently next to the gun.

The silence in the room was deafening.

John cursed himself for not having the forethought to keep his gun with him, even while at work, or at least not making the effort to head back to the flat to grab it when Sherlock pulled him away from the clinic for a case.

Sherlock’s eye flicked from the gun and bullet to Jim’s face. Both men had remained silent throughout their arrival, though Jim’s grin was unwavering while Sherlock’s face remained blank. Jim’s eyes were large, black orbs, but there was a flash of something dark, something evil in them. After spying the camera perched in the room’s corner, Sherlock’s shoulders slumped minutely, unnoticed by John but certainly seen by Moriarty.

Jim had finally laughed as he clasped his hands together and let them rest on the table. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

With no other options, the detective and his blogger sat.

“Now, do we have any volunteers to go first?” Jim’s question brought John back to the moment, eyes snapping up to look at the criminal.

Moriaty’s face is open and unguarded. All traces of his normal hostility and venom gone, though both Sherlock and John know it’s hidden just below the surface, like a snake in the grass.

In partial answer to Jim’s question, John lets out a hollow sounding laugh before replying, “Be my guest.”

“What a well-trained pet,” Jim says mockingly, then gives John a wink. He stretches one arm out lazily. Jim’s fingers barely brush the handle of the gun when Sherlock’s hand suddenly latches onto his wrist.

“Wait.”

All three men stare at Sherlock’s hand clutching Jim’s wrist, but only two really take it in.

Jim and John look up and lock eyes. John feels his face contort in anger as Jim’s morphs into a wicked grin.

“Sherlock, let him go first,” John grumbles through clenched teeth. “We’ve got a 1 in 6 shot he’ll blow his own fucking head off.”

John’s anger seems to snap Sherlock out of his thoughts. He gives a shake of his head and releases Jim’s arm. The detective breathes out a long sigh before turning to John. “Yes but that leaves us with a 5 in 6 probability of his survival. Statistically, if we do not spin between shots, the possibility of death will increase.”

“For us,” John confirms.

John watches as Sherlock closes his eyes but the detective’s low rumbling voice continues on. “Unless you can predict the location of the chambered round, it doesn’t matter who goes first or last. Like you said, it’s just luck.” Sherlock opens his eyes and gives John a small smile. “Once that bullet is loaded and the cylinder engaged, one of us is already dead, we just won’t know who.”

“And they say ‘dead men tell no tales’?” Jim laughs gleefully.

John shoots a quick glare at Jim and turns back to Sherlock. “And we can’t just… not play?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I can smell the 808 from here. I-,” Sherlock swallows thickly. “I made a mistake in assuming the almond scent I smelled was from the bakery next door.” He flashes John a small smile. “Won’t happen again.”

“That may be truer then you think,” Jim agrees with a small laugh. John and Sherlock turn to the criminal, Sherlock with a glare and John with a few choice words on the tip of his tongue, but he’s cut short by what he sees: Jim partially reclines in his chair with one hand still resting on the table where his fingers wrap loosely around the handle of the revolver. In his other hand, the shiny bullet rolls from knuckle to knuckle as if it’s nothing more than a coin. He’s staring at the other two, lips drawn together in a smirk.

“Either you both pull the trigger or you can say goodbye to Carnaby Street and every living soul in the blast radius, which.” Jim pauses to think, his face drawing up in concentration, “I figure to be about half a mile. Give or take a few metres. It’s really not an exact science, explosives.” He turns a large smile to John. “But you should know that, Johnny-boy! How many friends did you see get hit by IEDs in Afghanistan again? And how many of them did you let die?”

“You bastard!” John shouts as he leaps from his chair, hands slamming down onto the table. Sherlock is quick to grab his arm, pulling John to him and away from Moriarty.

“John, stop.” Sherlock tries to calm John, giving his arm a small squeeze and a quick smile.

Huffing out a few deep breaths, John continues to glare at Jim as he lowers himself back to his seat.

“Well if you’re done with your silly little dramatics,” Jim says with a sigh, glancing between Sherlock and John, “what’s say we start?” Jim slowly drags the gun off the table, the cold metal scratching along the wood surface. With a quick flick of the wrist, Jim pops the cylinder out and shows John and Sherlock the six empty chambers. He pinches the bullet between his thumb and index finger and brings the bit of metal close to his face.

“Russian roulette didn’t gain its name until 1937. It was the title of a short piece of fiction by Georges Surdez. The first few games were played for the thrill only. For the other players to become addicted to the danger, that feeling of adrenaline that burst through you as you hear the hammer fall but you find you’re still alive.”

Jim finally looks from the bullet to Sherlock. Everything is quiet for a brief moment. John looks between the two consultants. He sees Jim’s bright eyes but emotionless face; Sherlock’s furrowed brow and slightly downturned frown. Neither man makes any move; it’s possible they don’t even blink, leaving nothing to break the silent wave of communication between the two geniuses.

John’s hands ball up into fists.

Quick as a flash, Jim slips the bullet into a chamber and gives the cylinder a spin. The clicking of the ratchet as it rotates echoes in the room.

“It wasn’t until after a few suckers had been roped in that money was brought into the equation,” Jim continues over the slowing clicks of the gun. With another snap of his wrist, Jim closes the revolver before the cylinder could stop spinning. “They were trapped and forced to play the game.”

“I know how that feels,” John growls. He receives a withering stare from Jim.

Semi-loaded revolver in hand, Jim sits forward in his chair, placing his elbows on the table. He props his chin on his empty hand and looks between Sherlock and John. “Question first. What would you do if I’m the unlucky one? What if I pull this trigger and paint the wall red?”

“Depends,” John smiles slowly, “where the nearest pub and can I get streamers and balloons delivered?” He looks over to Sherlock. “You’d eat some cake right, if I got one of those chocolate monstrosities from that bakery you like?”

“You know Johnny,” Jim’s voice drips with venom, all mirth gone from his eyes. “I’m beginning to think you’re not taking this all that seriously.” The hand holding the gun drifts slowly towards John’s side of the table and the doctor’s posture stiffens instantly.

Without taking his eyes or the gun from John, Jim asks Sherlock again, “What would you do without me?”

After a quiet moment, Sherlock clears his throat and says, “I would find a new distraction.”

If John didn’t know better, he would have said he saw a quick flicker of pain cross Moriarty’s face.

“Is that all I am? A distraction?” Jim sneers. His eyes dart from John to Sherlock, though the gun stays targeted on the doctor.

“Not even a very good one,” Sherlock replies, almost lazily, but there is a fierceness in his eyes that betrays his lackadaisical exterior.

Jim’s eye twitches and John sucks in a deep breath, cursing Sherlock silently for pissing off a man who currently holds a semi-loaded gun pointed at him.

John swears he can hear the ticking of Sherlock’s watch.

But then Jim pulls the gun back and after flashing a bright smile at Sherlock replies “We’ll see about that,” and places the barrel of the revolver to his head and pulls the trigger.

+++++

Without even realizing it, John’s eyes have snapped shut, and he’s trying to calm his breathing. The hollow echo of the hammer’s fall against an empty chamber dissipates around the three men. Cracking open his eyes slowly, John sees a grinning Moriarty.

“Well,” Jim sighs thoughtfully as he lowers the revolver to the table, “I will admit that wasn’t as exciting as I had hoped.”

“Why don’t you take another go at it,” John offers unhelpfully, “maybe the second time will be better.”

“Oh no, can’t have that,” Jim says with a smile, “I can’t keep all this fun to myself.” As he looks at Sherlock and John, Jim gently places the gun down on the table equally between the two. “Now this will be the interesting part.”

John swallows thickly as he drags his eyes from the gun to look at Sherlock. To anyone else the detective still looks calm and collected, but John doesn’t miss the small tick of his eye or the way his Adam’s apple bobs as Sherlock swallows thickly.

“Sherlock,” John says quietly, drawing his partner’s eyes towards him, John’s dark browns meeting the ever changing hues of Sherlock’s. “It’s ok,” John continues, trying to sooth the younger man.

Now that the game has officially begun, an eerie sense of calm has settled over John. Memories that had faded over time, memories of screams and blasts, of the smell of fire and sweat, of the feel of a blistering sun and the weight of his kit; after so long away, those memories have suddenly sprang to the front of his mind and brought him an indescribable sense of peace.

John should be worried, for himself and for Sherlock and the hundreds of innocents above ground, mere feet away from enough explosives to level the whole street and the surrounding area.

John should most definitely be worried but it’s nothing but sheer strength Sherlock sees in his blogger’s eyes as they stare at each other. For a brief moment, Sherlock believes what John says, that everything will be fine. They’ll make it out of this mess like they’ve done dozens of times in the past. Together they can do it, they can do anything.

That feeling of hope which holds his heart high vanishes in an instant and Sherlock’s whole chests feels as if it’s caved in as he watches John, quick as lightening, grab the revolver from the table with his right hand, place the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger.

+++++

“JOHN!” Sherlock’s cry echoes in the nearly empty room, along with the sound of his chair clattering to the ground as he springs up from his seat, eyes wide in shock and fright.

The sound of a dry fire of the gun is quicker to fade.

John lets out a deep breath and with a slight shake to his hand, lowers the gun.

“Well done, Johnny! Gotta say, I did not see that one coming!” Jim laughs quickly, one eyebrow raises in admiration for the soldier.

A large burst of hatred and anger fills John completely, and his hand tightens on the gun. He could do it quickly, squeeze off the last four chambers until he found the bullet, end Moriarty once and for all.

But the tension in John’s arm does not go unnoticed.

“Tsk tsk, Johnny-boy. Do I have to pull a red card on you?” he says, teasing the ex-soldier. “Besides, round one is almost over! Just pass that little party popper to Sherlock and we’ll take a little halftime break.”

At the mention of his partner’s name, John finally looks from Jim to Sherlock but wishes he had when he the intense look of anguish he finds. “Sherlock-,” he begins but is cut short by Sherlock.

“What were you thinking?” Sherlock hisses at him, his voice harsh and filled with stinging venom. “How stupid are you? How could you just-“

“Because I had to!” John roars back at him, the ex-soldier standing from his own chair. The sudden look of shock on Sherlock’s face does nothing to cool the rage that was now bubbling to the surface inside John. “Because if there’s anything I could do to stop this from happening, I’m going to do it! Because whenever it comes down to you or me, no matter the circumstances, it will always be ME! Do you understand, Sherlock? I’m not going to just stand here and watch you kill yourself!”

“Oh, and I would wish the table to be turned,” Sherlock sneers at him. “I would have no problems with watching you take your own life?”

John’s eyes are wide in shock. “No, Sherlock, that’s not what I meant. I don’t think-”

“You never think, no one ever does,” Sherlock snaps at him, and matching the speed of his tongue, Sherlock snatches the pistol from where it hangs loosely, forgotten, in John’s hand.

John watches in stunned horror as Sherlock switches the gun to his right hand and moves to place the barrel to his own temple. “Sherlock, wait!,” but Sherlock does no such thing and John sucks in a deep breath and reaches his hands out to grab at the detective, to stop him, to do anything but simply watch.

But in the end, that’s all John can do, is watch, as his best friend stares him straight in the eye and squeezes the trigger.

+++++

Without even a pause, Sherlock drops the gun from his head and all but throws it back onto the table. “Tedious,” he says, though his voice is quiet and most of the heat from earlier has completely dissipated. The room stays silent as both he and John put their chairs back to rights and sit down to the table once again. Both blogger and detective keep their gazes low; John stares at his folded hands atop the table and Sherlock’s eyes zero in on the gun where he so carelessly tossed it.

“Oh, come on now, boys! Don’t be that way!” Jim laughs, glancing between the two men. “You were just doing so well. All that fire and drama, and me with a front row seat.”

“Shut up,” John growls at him, hands shifting from where they are loosely clasped on the table to clenching fists. “Just shut up.”

After giving John a sneer, Jim turns to Sherlock. “How’s the distraction now, Sherlock? Is this entertaining enough for you?”

“Just take your shot, Jim,” Sherlock says, still staring at the gun.

Jim gives a pout and crosses his arms over his chest. “No, I don’t think so. Not right now, anyways. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ending this little game of ours, but I won’t have my victory sullied by your little domestic.”

Both Sherlock and John glare at him, John’s eyes filled with a burning hatred while Sherlock’s are narrowed, thin and icy.

“Besides,” Jim continues, “you both have brought up a very interesting question. Which would you prefer? If I pull that trigger and once again I come out grinning on the other side, who would you rather find that bullet? You? Or John?” Before Sherlock even opens his mouth, Jim leans forward on the table, eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity. “Could you watch him die, just so you’d be left alive, still be able to chase me?”

Jim watches as Sherlock’s jaw tightens. To the side, John is also staring at Sherlock, his face wavering between horror and hope. John knows what he wants Sherlock to answer, knows which one is right and moral, but his heart is still preparing to be broken.

John eyes slide quietly closed as Sherlock finally answers Jim’s question with a firm, “No.”

“I’d wish for John to live,” Sherlock glances at his partner. “I’d take the bullet.”

John’s shoulders slump in defeat and he sinks down further into his seat, as if all the air has been released from a balloon.

Sherlock looks back to Jim. “Though, I’d have full faith in John’s ability to hunt you down and kill you slowly in revenge.” John’s eyes pop open and he watches as Sherlock’s face scrunches in thought for a moment. “I’m sure Mycroft would help. Possibly Lestrade.”

A nervous laugh slips through John’s parted lips. “I’m sure Mrs Hudson could be talked into lending a hand.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that John, she is only our landlady,” Sherlock smiles back at him.

The two flatmates share the smile for a moment, before Jim clears his throat loudly, drawing their attention.

“Lovely, gentlemen, really. Very entertaining. But the final act of this little performance is coming to a close.” The pistol is back in his hand, his pale fingers strumming upon the handle. “Are you ready to end this game of ours?”

“And if you lose?” Sherlock asks. “The bombs?”

“It’s all been sorted.” Jim gives a wave of his hand. “My people have been given very specific instructions on how to proceed, for any possible outcome.” Jim is grinning wildly by the end of his sentence. “Now, as this could be our last conversation, and I want you to think carefully, do you have any final words for me, Sherlock?”

The detective is silent, staring at Jim. John can think of a few choice words he’d like to unleash on Jim, but he keeps his mouth shut, allowing Sherlock time to think.

Sherlock finally breaks his silence, his voice low but steady. “Even if you die here, I won’t stop until every trace of you has been swept from this planet. I’ll hunt down every last line of your web and destroy it. I’ll erase every mention of your name, every connection to your network. And after a few years time, no one will even remember the name Jim Moriarty.”

“But you always will,” Jim says with a smirk.

And then John feels his body tense in anticipation as he watches Jim place the gun’s barrel to his temple and squeezes the trigger one last time.

+++++

The bottom drops out of John’s stomach as the noise of the dry fire fades away. “No,” he whispers, head lowered. He doesn’t notice the slight quiver of Jim’s hand as he lowers the gun to the table, but Sherlock sees and in any other situation, he wouldn’t be able contain the sense of pleasure at seeing his enemy showing such a telling sign of weakness.

But Jim is placing the gun on the table and after a moment, nudges it towards John. “Yes,” Jim finally replies with a smile. “Well, Johnny, are you regretting the decision to go second?”

Sherlock finds it hard to breathe suddenly. He can’t stop staring at the gun. Jim’s fingers continue pushing slowly, inching the revolver closer to the doctor.

Then time slows to a crawl as Sherlock watches John’s arm stretch out, hand grasping the gun’s handle.

This isn’t right. Sherlock should do something, anything to stop this. His mind is scrambling, images flashing in his head, images of breaking Jim’s neck, of John lying limp in his chair, of a blood splattered wall. But he’s frozen, stuck watching as his best friend pulls the gun to himself, John’s hand steady as steel.

“Fifty-fifty shot, Johnny. How lucky you feeling?” For once, Jim isn’t smiling, though his eyes are wide, too wide, and he’s breathing quickly, the mixture of adrenaline and thrill of the game finally affecting him.

John’s head rises slowly, until he’s staring the madman in the eye. John’s finger twitches as he imagines himself drawing on Jim and pulling the trigger, bombs be damned. He could do it, finally end this sick and twisted man. There nothing left in Jim Moriarty to pity, the man has taken too many lives already. But that’s when John realizes he can’t fire on Jim, can’t add to the man’s tally anymore than he must. Marking down one more murder on Jim’s tally sheet is better then the dozens or more that walk above them.

Sherlock watches as his flat mate sits up straighter in his seat. “John,” Sherlock tries to call out. “Please John, don’t.”

Dark brown eyes turn to him, and Sherlock struggles to keep his eyes dry.

“It’ll be alright, Sherlock,” John says, barely above a whisper. His eyes are slightly glassy, forming tears that haven’t been given the time to fall.

And for a split second, Sherlock can’t breathe.

That’s it. Stupid. He should have seen it before.

‘Because whenever it comes down to you or me, no matter the circumstances, it will always be ME!’

The conviction and anger in John’s eyes at the time had been heart stopping.

Now, John is giving him the same look, but Sherlock’s heart is stopping for an entirely different reason.

He’s about to watch John Watson die.  
“John,” Sherlock’s broken voice cries as John pushes the barrel to his temple and pulls the trigger.

Twice.

+++++

Jim’s laugh starts low but builds quickly.

John pulls the gun back and stares at it in shock. There is a soft clicking noise coming from the back of his throat, where the words he wants to say have collided into a heaping mess.

Sherlock clenches his hands into fists and tries to silent the maelstrom of feelings inside of him. His relief to see John alive, his horror at what John had just done, his surprise at any one of Jim’s tricks and a boiling anger at both Jim’s cruelty and John’s idiocy.

Reaching into his pocket, Jim pulls out the bullet from the start of the game. “I never did mention how that story ended, did I? Well, it turns out the initiator of the game had been cheating all along. He knew where the bullet was chambered, all to cheat the other out of his money. Bit pedestrian, if you ask me.” Jim sighs in the end, as if the reason for the man’s treachery had offended him. “The cheater goes to the other late one night to apologize and return the money, but after being rebuked, he shot himself.” Frowning, Jim locks eyes with Sherlock. “We won’t be reenacting that part of the story.”

John finally raises his head to look at Jim. “It was never loaded?”

Jim rolls his eyes and pockets the bullet again. “Let’s just say it was a bit of an experiment.”

The small sound of amusement Sherlock makes is all it takes to morph John’s confusion and shock into a fury of angry relief. “A fucking experiment?!” he shouts.

“I had a few theories I needed to test,” Jim all but sneers, his lips curled.

“You fucking bastard,” John begins to rage as he starts to move around the table.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Jim sing-songs softly, wagging a finger at John. “The game might have been a setup, but I can assure you the explosives are very much real and very much live.”

John’s nostrils flare as he continues to stare at Jim. His fingers flex and curl, clenching over and over into tight fist as the other strains over the handle of the gun still in hand. After a few tense moments, John slowly lowers himself back into his chair, all while Jim continues to grin at him.

“Well, I will say this was quite interesting, quite interesting indeed.” Jim moves around the table to Sherlock’s side, smiling at the detective. “However, I must be going, so many things to do, though sadly, none half as fun as this. I really must thank you for such a wonderful afternoon,” Jim all but purrs, extending his hand out towards Sherlock.

The two consults are silent, both staring at each other, neither making a move. John watches Jim’s hand hover in the air, fingers loose and waiting for Sherlock’s embrace.

John can barely contain his smile as Jim’s grin fades and he draws his hand back from the still motionless detective.

Slipping his hands deep into his pockets, Jim takes one more glances between John and Sherlock, and then gives a smirk. “I’ll be seeing you both later.” With that, the criminal moves behind the two and after the screech of whatever had barricaded the door is removed, he gives a small hum and vanishes from the room.

All is quiet for a few moments after Jim leaves, the tension between the detective and doctor almost visible in the air. Eventually, John realizes he still holds the revolver and quietly places it on the table. He flexes and relaxes his hand, stretching out the muscles that had gripped the gun so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Eventually, John clears his throat and cuts a quick glance to Sherlock. “Listen, I di-”

But Sherlock is suddenly there, standing next to him, his long coat billowing out around him. He grabs John’s arm and pulls the smaller man up to his feet. John’s shout of surprise is quickly muffled; Sherlock’s soft, blue scarf is suddenly plastered to his face. Sherlock’s spidery arms wrap around John, hands fisting in the black material of John’s jacket.

John’s eyes dart around the room as his mind races. Is this what he thinks it is? Is the great Sherlock Holmes actually… actually HUGGING him? John can hear the soft thud of Sherlock’s heart for just a moment, the warmth from the other man bleeding through his shirt and coat. John has just enough of a grasp on the situation to raise a hand and wrap it around Sherlock. He gives a quick squeeze and Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and blows it out slowly above John’s head.

Then just as suddenly as he’d appeared standing next to John, Sherlock releases him and pulls his phone from his pocket, fingers dancing across the touchpad.

“Right, if Mycroft’s people haven’t been sitting around useless as normal, we might be able to get a lead on which direction he’s headed.”

“Sherlock,” John starts slowly, but when the detective turns and meets his eye, there’s a resilience and understanding in Sherlock’s eyes that stops him. John swallows and gives a quick nod of his head. “Right. Good.”

There’s one more quick flash of a smile from Sherlock, and then he turns and all but races through the door and John follows.

As always.


End file.
